


Plush

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dirty Talk, Discussion of Underage Sex, M/M, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a dossier in his briefcase.  He’s rushed down from London, first train out of St. Pancras in the pink-grey hours of the morning, and outside the hotel's window, Lucerne sparkles in moonlight.  Those documents are for later, those files for later.  Work, later.  For now, he arches his back and feels the lifted arm of the chaise longue cup his hips like an affectionate lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3littleowls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/gifts).



> For my dearest 3littleowls, as both a congratulations and a thank you. I hope you love it!

The chair is elegant, coated in luscious chocolate velvet, and Q shivers as he trails a hand along the side in a caress.  It’s sensual; it’s made for sex.  There’s a dossier in his briefcase.  He’s rushed down from London, first train out of St. Pancras in the pink-grey hours of the morning, and outside the hotel's window, Lucerne sparkles in moonlight.  Those documents are for later, those files for later.  Work, later.  For now, he arches his back and feels the lifted arm of the chaise longue cup his hips like an affectionate lover.  Bond makes an appreciative sound from behind him.  Slightly to the left—7 o’clock, Q thinks, and—the first slap knocks him from his thoughts.  He squirms against the velvet and casts a baleful, half-hearted glare over his shoulder.

“Are you bloody serious, Bond?”

“An engraved invitation,” Bond murmurs against his ear, suddenly close and hot.  “You can’t blame me for accepting.”

“If you start with that ‘party in my pants’ line—” Q warns, and Bond’s laugh is more air puffed against his ear.

“I’m afraid we’ll both have to miss it if there were.  I’d like neither of us to be anywhere near your pants tonight.”

“You silver-tongued devil, you,” Q quips dryly.

“You’ve no idea what my tongue can do to you,” Bond returns, and it’s hard to remain haughty when anticipation shivers through his limbs so visibly.  To his credit, Bond doesn’t laugh, just palms Q’s arse and traces the check with his thumbnail.  “They’re hideous.”

“They’re comfortable.  I’ve been traveling.”

“They make you look like a schoolboy waiting to be ravished.”

“Please, sir,” Q parrots obediently, and.  Bond’s growl is interesting, his interest blatant in the press of his cock along the rear seam of his trousers.  “Please, sir,” Q repeats, and Bond obliges, grinding slow.

“I’d bet you were a terror,” Bond teases.  His cock is a firm ridge against Q’s arse, his thrusts so smooth and firm that he’s nearly lifting him off his toes.  “Sassing the professors, in trouble all the time.”

“An absolute horror,” Q confirms breathlessly.  “Faster?”

Bond obliges.  “With your teachers lining up for the shot to paddle that perfect arse, so nice in those regulation trousers.  So very, very nice.”

“Sometimes I’d be so sore I couldn’t sit in class.”  The confession is more than a little profane: a sweet-limbed, dew-eyed young man squirming in his seat, biting the edge of his lip as he shifts—it’s enough to appeal even to Q, and Bond startles a hungry groan out of him with another smack, the sound of his broad hand meeting the meat of Q’s arse sparkling in the still air.  “Yes,” Q whimpers, stretching until his fingertips just touch the flat of the seat.  It raises his arse in the air until Bond’s cock is rutting at just the right angle to jostle his bollocks as well, a slow, delicious drag of cock directly against all the sensitive bits that leave him shivering.

“And did they pet you after?  Soothe your tears with a touch, and they knew better?”  And oh, Bond’s—they joke sometimes, still, that he’s a naughty young thing and Bond’s the dirty old lech who likes to bend him over, but this is the first time they’ve—the spark of lightning that streaks up his spine at Bond’s words, at the images—

“Not all of them,” Q answers breathlessly, surrendering to the fantasy.  “Some of them, they were—” he stops to pant, a muffled hum of pleasure escaping his pinched lips when Bond changes his angle, captures Q’s stiffening cock between his belly and the furniture and bumps him into it hard enough to see stars swimming behind clenched eyelids, “—they took advantage!  Had me—had me on my knees, taught me—”  And Bond’s hands are around his hips now, tugging down his zip until first there’s only body-hot jersey and then nothing at all as he shimmies Q’s trousers and pants down his thighs, presses him cock first into the lush fabric and shoves his shirt up until the velvet prickles him from nipples to knees and he knows, knows what this would look like if anyone were to walk in right now.  “—a different kind of lesson altogether!”

“How to suck them?  How to please a man with your lips and tongue and throat until he comes?” Bond coaxes, and his cock is back, the buttons on his flies startling and cold against Q’s flesh and the tweed so thick and nubbed.  “Or how to fuck?  How to take a cock while you’re on your back and begging so pretty?  You do beg so pretty.”

“Please,” Q begs obligingly.  “Please, please sir.”

“Ah,” Bond tuts, drawing back.  Q could cry, does cry out when Bond’s palm catches him on the full underside of one buttock.  “But you haven’t had your spanking yet.  And you’ve been so very, very naughty, Q.”

It’s only a few, sharp enough to smart and pink the skin, hard enough to tempt an ache that sinks deep into his guts and fills him up with want.  Bond’s not after punishment, prefers to toy with the heated flesh of his arse with pressing fingertips and indelicate nails, and Q is trembling.  He must be leaking, must be making the most horrific mess.

“Put your palms flat on the seat, Q.”  There’s no room for budging, no inch of play in Bond’s command.  Q tips himself forward, feels himself slide through a patch of slicked velvet hot and sticky and the tips of his ears go red and hot.  He can’t quite reach, can’t exactly get his palms to touch until his toes leave the ground and he slides forward, stretched and arched against the sleek, sinuous shape of the chaise.  The position is awkward, the angle strained, parting his legs, and he kicks just a little, unmoored and terrifyingly exposed.  Bond smoothes his hand along his hip like calming a startled horse and Q droops, resolves himself that the floor is just out of reach no matter how he points his feet, and sinks open and splayed across the velvet.  The pose is strange, and he’s grateful that Bond lets him adjust before touching his arse with curious fingers again.

“What a beautiful display,” Bond murmurs, and Q bucks a bit, compulsively, as his body tries to anchor itself, tries to hide the raw pink hidden parts of itself that are now so clearly shown.  Bond waits for him to settle, then opens him with firm, technical hands.  “So lovely.”  He presses an intimate kiss high on an inner thigh, just close enough to his arsehole that Q can feel himself clenching under his wet breath, then draws back.  “Fit for the Tate, I think—a true work of art.”

“More the Saatchi,” Q teases back.  He’s not surprised by the smack he gets for his cheek.

“Elegant,” Bond continues, stroking a finger sternly from the base of Q’s spine across the pinch of his hole to press firm behind his bollocks.  Q tries to stay still, but Bond laughs quietly.  “You wiggle so much, though.”

“Someone might be petting my arsehole like it’s a prized pet,” Q retorts, and he can hear Bond’s grin behind him.

“But it’s so sweet, and kisses back.”

And he’s not surprised by the thick press of Bond’s tongue on him, for all it shoves a moan from his lips against his will.  He loves this, unabashedly.  Bond knows it, loves it too—loves holding him down to eat his arse with relish, and Q will never, ever tire of the sweet muscle of it, the width and girth of Bond’s tongue and the sloppy wet of the kisses he sucks at the rim.  His toes curl and he knows he’s ruining the furniture beneath him, and he doesn’t give a good goddamn because Bond makes love with his mouth like a man starved and greedy, glutting himself on Q’s whimpers and the trembles of his thighs.  Bond’s brought him off like this before, brought himself off cock in hand and used the slick of his own come for the reach around, and Q’s toes are nearly cramped between the bliss and the endless search for leverage as Bond spreads him wider, coaxes his legs open further and Q feels his precome smearing damp up the length of his belly until he can smell himself wet and desperate.

“Please, please, please,” he begs in whispers, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for.  More—more of Bond’s tongue, more pleasure, more of this beautifully overwhelming heat that’s clenched its fist inside his skin and threatens to turn him inside out.  Less—less teasing, less of that shuddering lethargy that holds him still while Bond touches him with slick, probing fingers, less of that ache of desire that’s set up shop between his heart and his bollocks with obedience to both.  Bond drags the sharp edge of his teeth along the puckered skin, pulls at him with thick fingers until he’s got a slack edge to nibble, to lap, to suck at, and all he can do is cry his sweaty pleasure into the fabric that’s rushing to meet his face as his elbows give.  Bond follows, and still Q whimpers into the velvet.

“Oh,” Bond says, and he sounds ruined, eyes and voice dark and soft as he scoops Q up in a puddle of limbs to pour him onto the seat like a fainted lady.  “Oh, my beautiful, beautiful boy.  Look what a mess you’ve made.”  And Q knows what a mess he’s made, can smell himself in the slick stains sticking his messy, sweaty hair to the chaise by his head, has seen the wicked smears along the line of his belly and the love-purpled stand of his erection.  Of his cock.  Bond pets it and it bobs beneath his hand, and he looks hopelessly charmed.

Q lets his legs fall open, sets one knee on either side of the chaise’s wide seat and lets his toes skim the ground beneath him.  The jut of him is rude like this, stark against his sleek, sweat-gleamed body, and Bond is drawn in like a magnet until he cannot keep his hands, his tongue away from it.  At the first touch of his mouth, Q curls his fingers tight enough to hurt in the short bristle of Bond’s hair and pulls him down until his nose is nestled deep in the dark curls at the base of his cock.  Bond humours him, lets him hold until he’s nearly out of air and panting, then pushes back against his hands, and when that doesn’t work sets the tips of his teeth against skin in erotic threat.  Q lets him retreat, meets lust-dark eyes with pupils wide and all-seeing, and pulls him down again.  Again Bond opens his throat, again Bond presses his lips against wiry hair in reverent benediction, and again Bond touches just the sharpest edge of tooth gingerly to thin, delicate skin.  Q pushes, just to feel the scrape an inch, an inch and a half, two, and comes hard enough to set the world spinning.  He’s dizzy with it, stomach twitching and jumping with the force of it, his body expelling pleasure with cramping intensity.

He’s not quite done, still twitching and leaking and dripping when Bond flips him, pushes fingers inside the spasming clutch of his arse, and rubs himself off against his inner thigh.  Bond’s knuckles bump the tingling skin of his perineum as he wanks; the spill of his come is hot and thick against Q’s skin, leaves a cooling trail as it slips down his thigh to ruin the fabric further.  There’s a salt-chlorine smell under his nose, and Bond snuffles at an armpit as he crushes Q into the mess, both of them content to be be hot, to smell like sex.

Q lets his fingers curl around the edge of the ruined cushion.  Bond kisses idle patterns into the nape of his neck.

“I want one,” Q says finally.  “For home.”

Bond laughs.


End file.
